✩ ━━━ chapter eighteen, the rebirth of zagreus. ❝I can't stand that you're talking when you shouldn't be living, I didn't dodge all your bullets, just denied that they hit me. So when my body is bleeding, I wont admit that this hurts.❞

WITHIN THE REALM OF GODS AND MONSTERS, THE FAÇADE OF IMMORTALITY CRUMBLED UNDER THE WEIGHT OF AN UNDENIABLE TRUTH: The promise of eternal life is a lie. Though divinity bestows longevity, perpetuating the faith of an eternal existence beyond the cycle of birth and death—of being an entity unlike any other, a god with ichor instead of blood, untouched by the filth of humans and monsters—it was merely a façade, lurking with deception and fragility beneath its gilded surface. The gods were subject to the same laws of nature and mortality as the creatures they oversaw. Even the mightiest gods and the most fearsome monsters harbored a vulnerability that could rupture their seemingly indestructible existence.

Micah understood that being immortal did not guarantee eternal life.

He was the only person, it seemed, who carried the burden of that profound revelation.

Moreover, he stood as the only one ready to take action based on this understanding.

As the grandson of Nyx crossed the threshold into the Empire State Building, the ornate ceiling above and the polished marble floors beneath bound him with their timeless elegance. The meticulously designed lighting fixtures illuminated his path with a soft, enticing glow, as if beckoning him to walk faster—to carry out his will immediately, a will ordained and longed for by the Fates. His destined path was clear before him, leading him towards the heart of the building where his purpose awaited.

In this ambiance, one particular myth came to Micah's mind—the story of Zagreus, the adored child of Zeus and Persephone.

Moved by his newborn son, the King of Olympus harbored such love that he planned to name Zagreus his rightful heir, vowing to grant his son boundless authority and unrestricted power. Tales of Zeus' devotion spread to the mortal realm, captivating the hearts and minds of all who heard them. Among the followers of Orphism, Zagreus was venerated, worshipped, and hailed as the supreme deity, holding the highest position among all gods. But as the adoration for Zagreus blossomed, Hera's jealousy festered. The Queen of Olympus urged the Titans to attack the child while she beguiled him with toys and false affection.

In the end, Zagreus was torn apart limb by limb, flesh devoured by the wrathful Titans until only the child's heart was left.

Orpheus' tales of the Dionysian Mysteries delve into the heartbreaking legend of Zeus' prized son—Of the sorrow the mighty Olympian experienced after his loss, which fueled his unwavering resolve to seek retribution against the Titans. Overwhelmed by grief, Orpheus described how Zeus unleashed his thunderbolts, reducing the Titans to ashes as punishment for their crime. Humans arose from those ashes, born from wickedness and destruction, carrying within them the eternal struggle between good and evil. Athena, in all her compassion, managed to rescue the child's heart from the soot, which she then presented to Zeus. The Lord of the Sky swallowed it whole to ensure his treasured child's eventual rebirth. When deemed safe, he bestowed the heart of his son upon Semele, who became the vessel for a new creation—this new child, made from the remains of Zagreus, was called Dionysus.

Dionysus, the twice-born god, possessed no resemblance to Zagreus, the cherished son whom Zeus ardently awaited. Instead, Dionysus possessed a wild and untamed nature, the opposite of everything Zagreus once was. It wasn't the son Zeus once loved; tension and conflict arose between Zeus and Dionysus as their differences became apparent. The King of Olympus grieved, awaiting the return of Zagreus and the connection they once shared, but Zagreus was forever lost to him. Dionysus served as a constant reminder of this painful truth. Their relationship would never improve, doomed by the irreparable loss of Zagreus.

Zagreus was dead, and Dionysus was alive.

Immortality did not save Zagreus, and his father's love did not protect him either.

And as the elevator rose from the ground to the 600th floor, Micah reveled in the knowledge that a deity had been murdered. Like a shooting star defying its fate, Micah will find a way to challenge the gods, a mere half-blood comparable to a grain of dust in the face of colossal supernovas.

He is not a Titan, but his strength and intelligence have allowed him to leash their king, so if he cannot kill the Olympians forever, he'll destroy everything that gave them power.

He will show the world—Percy—that even gods can be brought to their knees.

It would not be an exaggeration to say that the son of Hypnos was born with a divine destiny. Micah knew from a young age that he was meant to serve a higher purpose—to bring about change in the world, to rise above all half-bloods, to trample past heroes and surpass the limitations of legends—He was meant to be the incarnation of Zagreus, to be exalted as the highest of all the gods despite his mixed heritage. Micah would be better than Zagreus, in fact, without any of the tragedies that plagued the deceased god.

A proverb whispered into Micah's ear by Nyx has been with him through the darkest nights and his loneliest moments for years now, embedded within Micah's bones like an ancient prophecy. As the elevator door slowly slid open, revealing the desolate entrance to Mount Olympus—a kingdom that was waiting for the son of Hypnos to fulfill his destiny and usher in a new era—it now resounded within him, guiding his steps. Become great in God's eyes so as to bring freedom to your people, Micah prayed to himself, repeating his grandmother's words like a commandment as he stepped forward with resolve. The weight of his purpose had settled on his restless shoulders, a constant reminder of the expectations placed upon him.

Driven by the memory of Yangyang, who will be forever immortilized in his memories and outlive the gods who allowed him to die far too young. For his grandmother, brothers, aunts, and uncles, who had endured the oppression of the Olympians and are now teetering on the brink of extinction. For his helpless father, who had suffered constant humiliation and was never able to rise above his shortcomings. For Ethan, who was too young to understand the weight of their people's history.

Yet, above all, it was Percy who weighed most on his heart.

The supposed chosen one, carrying not just his own struggles but also the hopes and aspirations of countless others. Not yet an adult but tasked with rescuing the entire world from the impending Hell that loomed ahead. Percy, who shared Micah's soul; the hero who would blindly bleed for the Olympians until his last breath, deceived by the responsibilities of a supposed greater good unless Micah did something to open his eyes to the truth—that sacrificing himself for the Olympians would only perpetuate a cycle of devastation and suffering.

It was up to him to show Percy the alternative path set by the House of Midnight, the one that would bring true peace and liberation for their people and the world. Even if it meant breaking Percy's trust for now—even if it meant murdering a god once again.

Micah walked unhurriedly, his slow steps hardly leaving an imprint on the lush grass that grew on the path leading to the unguarded gates of Mount Olympus, the Horae long abandoning their duty of protecting the divine realm. Homer had described Olympus as an abode of perfect blessedness, a place where no wind ever disturbed the untroubled peace—a paradise unmatched by any other in glory and magnificence; but now, the once-enticing sweet fragrance of ambrosia had a nauseating edge to it. The mountain remained trapped in its eternal spring, a cloak of calm atop the tension weighing in the air; the cloudless sky stretched around it on all sides, and the white glory of sunshine diffused upon the walls of the divine homes, a fantasy of sublime beauty yet stained with an unspoken anxiety. The lively atmosphere Micah had come to associate with Olympus since he first stepped into the realm all those years ago was replaced with a somber stillness after the inhabitants deserted at the threat of an invasion. The laughter that had once echoed through the mountainside as immortals rejoiced in their eternal youth had fallen into silence. The flourishing gardens and mosaic streets seemed hauntingly deserted, devoid of any life, and the divine trees that bore immortal fruits for Pegasus were left uneaten and untouched. The statues of the gods stood as silent witnesses to the impending doom, their stone eyes conveying a sense of grief, as if even they knew that their time in this sacred realm was coming to an end.

Despite his body aching, Micah found himself grinning as he stood at the edge of the once thriving city. If it weren't for his back being split open, blood marring the feathers of his mutilated wings despite all of Ethan's efforts to bandage the wounds and bind his wings, Micah would've opened his arms and spun with joy—a kingdom founded on human exploitation, deceit, jealousy, and vindictiveness had become entirely devoid of life.

Power-driven corruption and the flourishing of greed left a trail of dead children in the god's path like trampled flowers on a cemetary—Zeus reasoned that since they would live forever, they had the freedom to do as they pleased, but it wasn't true, and Micah will show them—Nyx's grandson had seen the anguish and pain inflicted by the Olympians, and now, after years of planning their destruction, he was one step closer to completing his divine mission.

Become great in God's eyes so as to bring freedom to your people, Micah prayed. Alone, he walked to the summit. The cruelty of the gods knows no bounds, he recited, trying to keep his mind off the pain, for they toy with mortals like mere playthings, delighting in the suffering of their worshippers.

Countless verses and passages from holy texts were repeated in his mind as he walked towards the Acropolis. Each step brought him closer to his ultimate goal; when he is done, Hiroki—Micah—will no longer feel pain—He will rise above his bodily needs and join the House of Midnight with the same fortitude as his brothers. He will see his father again, as Nyx promised, and he will be able to stand in front of Hypnos with pride; knowing that he has overcome his own suffering and emerged stronger. He will prove himself worthy of his family's legacy.

All of his sacrifices—every scar, each drop of blood spilled, everything he endured—every tear shed in moments of despair, all those nights of heart-wrenching loneliness, every broken relationship he left behind—abandoning his mother and father, Naoki, Ethan, and losing Percy—it will all be worth it.

In order to be reborn, one must die first.

The demise of Zagreus led to the rebirth of Dionysus, just as Hiroki's loss paved the way for Micah's ascent. In order to embrace the new life awaiting him in the House of Midnight, he must let go of his old self and shed the remnants of his past.

Sweat dripped down Micah's forehead as fever ravaged his body, his muscles aching and his heart pounding; He felt a chilling coldness within, overshadowing the fire of the ambrosia that burned in his veins. The pain was unbearable, but Micah knew that consuming more ambrosia was the only way to survive. He continued to walk.

At the mountain's summit, where the blazing sun radiated a brilliance second only to the grandeur of Olympus Palace's golden and ivory pillars, a woman stood, patiently awaiting his arrival. She was barefoot, covered in a plain, modest dress, her hair cascading in soft waves down her back, sheltered from the wind by a linen shawl; She held a rag in her hands, and the worry in her slight gaze gave way to calmness as she caught sight of him. With a gentle smile, she extended her hand toward him.

"Sweet Hiroki," Lady Hestia greeted warmly. "Welcome to Olympus, my child."

The wind howled around him, as if echoing the cries of those who had suffered under the Olympians' rule. Micah remained silent, and without speaking further, Hestia offered to wash his face.

"I worried," the goddess confided, wetting the washcloth before gently applying it to his skin. With an undeserved leniency, she tenderly wiped away the sweat, offering relief in the coolness of the damp rag against his scorching skin. "News of your severe wounds reached me—wounds that could have claimed any mortal's life. However, I never doubted your capabilities. Once again, dear Hiroki, you have demonstrated your worth."

"Is this why you stand next to a loutrophoros, my lady?" Micah asked, his tone slightly scornful. Through the haze of his vision, he recognized the marble vessel placed beside the goddess, its long neck and intricately carved handles unmistakable. Historically, the loutrophoros served various purposes, primarily as a way of supplying water in pre-nuptial ritual baths for brides and, more fittingly in his case, in the cleansing of the body during funeral ceremonies.

Children of the Olympians, whether officially recognized or not, had to be laid to rest properly to honor their divine heritage: cremation if the body is available or the burning of a burial shroud if it isn't. Without a proper burial, unable to achieve peace in the afterlife, the restless spirits and unburied corpses of the Olympian bloodline could stir monsters, cause chaos and unrest in the mortal realm. The loutrophoros, filled with sacred water, aided in the purification and cleansing of the body during funeral ceremonies. It was believed that by performing these rituals, the spirits of the departed would find peace and harmony in the afterlife. The responsibility fell upon Micah to ensure that fallen half-bloods received the proper burial rites, not only to honor their divine lineage but also to protect both mortals and immortals from potential harm. The sight of it reminded him of people he had to bury because of the Olympians—of the duties he carried out as a chained dog, a life sentence he couldn't ignore or escape unless he died or severed the very hand that bound his collar.

Hestia caught Micah's intense gaze as he struggled to hold back the haunting memories that the familiar loutrophoros sparked in him. The goddess' smile persisted, unaware, as she responded to his sharp remark. "I confess, I still retain a certain naivety in my heart. I can't help but muse: wouldn't death offer a gentler conclusion to your story compared to the challenges that lie ahead of you? Don't you agree?"

"Well, if we're indulging in these useless musings," Micah couldn't contain himself any longer and began to speak his mind. "I find myself often musing about you gods, as you probably could've guessed. My recent thoughts have been revolving around the term 'myth.' Legends, tales, stories, epics—so many words, all seemingly designed to remove any sense of accountability. 'Legend has it Zeus only raped a dozen women each Tuesday,' 'the tenth myth of Aphrodite's murderous jealousy leading the goddess to slaughter yet another ill-fated woman simply because she did not conform to her mortal status,' ' Apollo and Artemis massacre twelve children in a cautionary tale of hubris', 'the wondrous epic of Zeus instigating the Trojan War to purge the excess demigods in the world,'"

Hestia thought thoroughly before responding,  a contemplative expression gracing her kind facade. Wrinkles lined her face, and faint, thin brown hairs grew above her lips. Her eyebrows were slightly unkempt, and sun-kissed marks adorned her cheeks, as if she had spent hours outdoors.

Micah found himself unable to endure the sight of her.

Hatred burned inside of him. How dare a god impersonate a human? How dare she add wrinkles to her face, as if the goddess could ever experience the hardships of mortal life? Of aging? He clenched his fists, feeling a surge of anger towards her deceptive appearance.

Her eyes, filled with flames, sparkled with wisdom as she finally spoke. "These tales are but fragments of the vast tapestry that is our history, my child," she replied. "Those stories aren't meant to absolve us of responsibility for our actions. They serve as cautionary tales for mortals, reminding them of the perils that come with power and unchecked desires. We, the gods, aren't the ideals you should strive for. Humanity holds its own unique beauty and value, and no human should desire the immortality and godly powers we possess. Mortals should embrace their mortality and treasure the finite time they have on Earth. It's within their imperfections and limitations that genuine beauty and growth can truly flourish."

"Yet Arachne was beaten and driven to suicide despite her tapestry being deemed equal to Athena's." Micah's voice dripped with bitterness. "The women of Kypros tried to embrace their beauty, but Aphrodite cursed them to prostitute their bodies as punishment—Their hearts were dulled to the hardness of flint, and their bodies were transformed into stone, cursed to become nothing but objects of desire."

Hestia opened her mouth to speak, but her words caught in her throat at the intensity of Micah's rage. "You impose your will upon us, treating our lives as if we were pawns in your divine game. You implant within us the desire for power and greatness, only to condemn us when we pursue them. You tell us to embrace our imperfections, but then punish us for our mistakes. You claim to value our free will, but it seems that you manipulate the circumstances to fit your own agenda. If you truly believe in the beauty of mortality, why do you tamper with our destinies and subject us to suffering?"

Hestia's hand tightened around the washcloth; The warmth that had once filled her eyes, akin to a hearth's glow, dimmed into a cold and disheartened gaze. Her voice remained steady but carried a sense of dismay as she responded, "It saddens me to see how much hatred you carry in your heart, Hiroki."

"My name is Micah," he corrected, his tone sharp. "And with due respect, Lady Hestia, I don't give a fuck about what you feel. I don't expect someone like you to understand. Do you revel in being special, Lady Hestia? A goddess so beautiful that Zeus approved of your decision to retain your virtue while stripping hundreds of theirs—so loved that two rapists vowed to punish anyone who would ever attempt to woo you. What would you know of your pain?"

"I am not here to obtain gratification from anything, Micah," Lady Hestia responded calmly. "My decisions were rooted in my own convictions and principles, not motivated by seeking special treatment or validation. I am understanding that you may harbor resentment, but I wish more than anything that you would look beyond your anger and seek a path to healing."

"Lady Hestia, your naivety stays because you've always been safe within your hearth, spared from the need to battle for anything or confront life. He who does not punish evil, commands it to be done." Micah mused, a faint smile betraying the disingenuousness of the goddess in front of him. "No, someone like you would never understand."

Lady Hestia's expression had a desperate carve to it as she listened to Micah's words, her eyes filled with apprehension.  "Micah, I may not have experienced the same hardships as you, but that doesn't mean I cannot comprehend the pain felt by half-bloods or the need for justice. Let us find a way to bridge our perspectives and work towards healing together—"

"'And the Lord said to Paul one night in a vision," Micah interrupted; the goddess had believed that her kindness, her gentle words, would be sufficient to prevent him from entering Olympus. She would never understand. "Do not be afraid, but go on speaking and do not be silent, for I am with you, and no one will attack you to harm you, for I have many in this city who are my people. There's no healing, Lady Hestia. You can't treat corruption; you can only eradicate it. I wish I could live peacefully, be happy with my family like any other child, but that isn't the path the Fates laid out for me."

"You will die," Hestia warned cruelly. "The path you tread leads to destruction and chaos—"

Micah's agitation was palpable. "Nyx's will is my own," he reiterated. "I'm not afraid of death; it's the prospect of dying under the rule of the Olympians that truly terrifies me. Sisyphus, Prometheus, Tantalus, Ixion—All punished for defying the gods, their torment unrelenting even in the afterlife. What would prevent Zeus from laying claim to my soul in Hades? What assurance do I possess that the Olympians won't manipulate my fate in the afterlife as they do now? Tell me, Lady Hestia—Will I ever truly be free from their grasp?" Micah's voice wavered, a blend of trepidation and resolve as he questioned the goddess. "I've already sacrificed everything, and I will continue to do so if it means creating a world without Zeus! My purpose is greater than my own life, and I will not waver in fulfilling it." 

The open expanse before the palace descended into an eerie hush, as if the field itself recognized that Micah's resolve was immovable. The wind persisted in its murmur among the trees, casting an air of foreboding. The atmosphere grew heavy with tension, Hestia unable to fully grasp the depth of Micah's resolve. The goddess knew that her words held no sway over him; he had reconciled with his fate. The son of Hypnos, once seen by the god and Percy Jackson as the solution to averting catastrophe, now stood unwavering in the belief that destruction was necessary for the greater good. He isn't malicious; he isn't evil, she knew, yet he clung to the beliefs of the House of Midnight, convictions coursing through his veins, blinding him to the impending horrors Nyx would unleash upon the world—horrors he would realize too late.

Hestia's tranquility faltered, her composure giving way. She posed a direct question, her tone wearisome, "Do you believe you could fare better than we have? Nyx is poison! Her darkness will seep into every corner of Olympus—"

"If she is poison, you are cancer." Micah retorted. "Olympus is already filled with darkness, far worse than anything my grandmother could conjure. She may bring chaos, but at least she won't pretend to be something she's not. She won't hide behind egotism and deceit like you Olympians do. We need change, Lady Hestia, and Nyx is the catalyst for it."

Hestia's eyes widened briefly, a fleeting flicker of doubt passing across her features. "Change is necessary," she admitted, her voice gentler now. "However, we must proceed with caution, as recklessness can engulf us all in chaos."

"Enough," Micah sighed wearily, and then a faint smile graced his lips, carrying a touch of wistfulness. "I had hoped that you would prove me different, Lady Hestia."

Hestia's reply carried a sense of heartache. "In what way have I disappointed you, sweet Hiroki?"

"You cleaned my face," Micah responded, his voice carrying a mixture of wistfulness and resignation. "But in your pursuit of an advantage for Camp Half-blood, you chose not to treat my wounds, leaving me injured and vulnerable. You taunt me with the presence of a loutrophoros. You speak of healing, meeting my eyes with promises of change, but you maintain my weakness, ready to exploit it. That's the hypocrisy that will fade away with you."

The goddess, at a loss for words, asked, "What will your father think of you?"

Micah chuckled softly. "Lady Hestia, how could you possibly understand what it's like to be the cause of your parent's tears?" He inquired, his lack of interest evident. "I am my father's son. It's always been my obligation to surpass him."

Hestia fell silent. Her gaze held a trace of regret as Micah wordlessly circled around her, his steps deliberate and resolute as he moved towards the palace, leaving her behind.

The palace grounds displayed statues of legendary creatures, their stone forms captured in timeless displays of might. Elaborate friezes embellished the palace's exterior walls, narrating the tales of gods and myths, exuding an air of divine harmony and equilibrium. Micah walked amidst the towering marble columns, their shadows stretching into eerie, elongated shapes across the ground. He had become desensitized to Olympus years before, indifferent to the opulent jewels and priceless artifacts that adorned its halls. The Halls of the Gods were once a place of wonder and awe for Micah, but now they felt crude—Shallow, devoid of the sacred sanctity that once captivated his imagination as a child. The once vibrant frescoes and intricate mosaics now appeared lifeless, their colors faded into monotony, mirroring Micah's waning fascination with Olympus. The grandeur that once captivated him now seemed like nothing more than a facade, hiding the true nature of the gods. Each balcony and terrace he passed offered breathtaking views of the vast landscapes below, yet to Micah, they merely served as reminders that the gods observed the mortal world from above—could see the suffering of their children—but chose not to intervene.

Micah's stride came to a halt when he stood before a colossal door, intricately etched with the visages of the twelve Olympians—Zeus, Poseidon, Hera, Demeter, Aphrodite, Athena, Artemis, Apollo, Ares, Hephaestus, Hermes, and Dionysus. Pushing it open, he crossed the threshold into the throne room, engulfed by the warmth emanating from the eternal flame that burned in the center of the chamber. The air was heavy with the scent of incense, and the soft flickering of Greek fire danced across the ornate tapestries that adorned the walls, depicting the accomplishments of the gods, their so-called heroic deeds immortalized in vibrant hues and intricate stitching. Above, the ceiling glimmered with constellations, celestial beams of light filtering through the intricate windows, casting a luminous aura on the gathering below. The twelve thrones of the gods formed a U-shape around the hearth, curving around a singular colossal seat in the room's apex, reserved solely for Zeus. The room was filled with a palpable sense of power and authority, as if centuries of history and divine presence lingered in every corner.

Inside, several immortals were engaged in lively conversation, their voices echoing off the marble walls. All sorts of gods, from Tyche, the goddess of fortune, to Aristaeus, the patron god of animal husbandry and bee-keeping, were present in the grand hall. The air was filled with a sense of anticipation as the gods eagerly discussed various matters, their animated gestures emphasizing their passion. For the majority of them, it has been countless centuries since they last visited Olympus, much less the throne room.

The god of sleep was nowhere to be seen.

Micah stepped forward, unfazed. His footsteps echoed as he walked, and the creaking of the massive door shutting abruptly silenced all conversations. Every gaze converged upon him, his arrival demanding immediate attention. He met the gazes of the immortals without flinching. A hush descended upon the room, heavy with expectancy, as they awaited his reason for disrupting their lively exchanges.

Micah arched an eyebrow.

Kalligeneia, one of the goddesses of the Mysteries, was the first to break the silence, her tone lighthearted as she called out, "Young Micah! You've arrived!"

The room erupted in a mixture of relief and excitement.

Micah nodded passively. "Your divinities," He greeted with a bow, ignoring the white flash of pain that flashed across his vision as he shifted his injured back; His voice remained calm and composed. "I apologize for interrupting your discussions."

Two goddesses rushed to his side; Aceso, Aegle, Hygieia, Iaso and Panacea are the daughters of Asclepius, a half-blood hero renowned for his skill in medicine; He had risen to share the epithet Paean with his father Apollo, surpassing his father as Asclepius could cure any illness, heal any injury, and even bring back the dead with the Physician's Cure, but it did not last long before Hades and Zeus collaborated to murder him, placing his body among the stars as the constellation Ophiuchus. The death of his son sparked Apollo's rebellion against Zeus, who struck him with a lightning bolt and exiled him from Mount Olympus for a year.

Micah had assigned Iaso, goddess of recuperation, and Aegle, goddess of radiant good health, to aid Camp Half-Blood as they battle against Kronos' army, knowing they'd need the help. Panacea, goddess of universal remedy, and Hygieia, goddess of health and hygiene, stubbornly stayed behind, waiting for Micah wherever he went nowadays, no matter if it was Mount Othrys or if he commanded them away. Their unwavering loyalty is both reassuring and burdensome.

Aceso, whom he has known since that winter when he was seven years old, was nowhere to be seen.

"Oh, look at my adorable Micah! You've grown so much since we last saw you!" Panacea exclaimed, her eyes filled with pride. It's been less than a week since they last saw each other; Micah forced himself to smile—At least it wasn't his Aunt Hemera.

Hygieia chimed, "We were worried sick about you. How are you feeling?"

"We're sorry we can't do more," Panacea apologized. "It must be so painful for such a young boy like you! So cruel of Lady Nyx—Ouch! Hygieia! Oh, I mean, please let us know if there's anything we can do to help!"

Hygieia lightly brushed his hair with her fingers with an anxious expression, trying to comfort him needlessly, while Panacea was examining his injured back, her touch gentle but bearing an unfavorable expression on her face. "As soon as possible is preferable," Panacea advised grimly.

"I appreciate your concern, my ladies," he replied, his voice strained but grateful. "I'm managing the pain as best as I can. Thanks to your future care and support, I know I will be able to fully recover. But, for the time being, I have obligations, so please don't be too concerned."

With a nod of understanding, Panacea stepped back, and Micah turned and walked away.

"Someone please find and escort Lady Hestia to one of the gardens," he ordered as he walked, his voice calm and authoritative. "We cannot afford any disruptions."

Alastor, god of family feuds and avenger of evil deeds, volunteered eagerly. "I'll do it, Micah!"

Micah glanced at Alastor with a nod of approval. "Do not let her leave the gardens unless either I or the son of Poisedon ask," he instructed. Alastor nodded, and if he was confused by the mention of Percy, he did not ask as he left the room to carry out his task.

Next to the hearth, his gaze fixed on the eternal flame for a fleeting moment before he released a deep, heavy sigh.

"I need ambrosia," he called out. The pain in his wings had become unbearable, and he knew that only the healing properties of ambrosia could save him from losing them permanently.

"Do not listen to him," a dulcet voice interjected; Micah's gaze shifted downward to find Aceso seated on the ground, her gaze heavy with sorrow as she focused on the hearth. She motioned for him to draw near, extending her hand to clasp his own; The tremors in Micah's hand subsided. "Ambrosia is not the answer," she said, shaking her head with concern. "Consuming more would prove fatal."

Micah regarded Aceso with a frustrated expression, but the goddess had long since adjusted to his temperament.

"I'm fine," Micah insisted, brushing off Aceso's warning. "I can't afford to slow down. My brothers are not back yet. I need to keep guard." The goddess sighed, knowing that Micah's stubborn determination was both admirable and equally dangerous. She decided to offer a compromise: "I understand your urgency, but please sit with me, young hero. Take a moment to rest and replenish your strength. Your brothers will need you at your best when they return."

Micah refused to lower himself to the floor of Olympus; He remained standing. Aceso breathed out a soft chuckle, admiring his unwavering resolve.

"Once, your cheeks bore the softness of youth, yet now you stand before me with a hardened gaze," Aceso observed, her eyes tracing the contours of Micah's face; He was eighteen now, a young man poised at the edge of adulthood, his tenacity evident in every line of his face. He had grown up quickly, forced to mature beyond his years due to the responsibilities thrust upon him. "I'm still unsure if you've grown well, Hiroki."

Micah was growing tired of hearing that meaningless name. "For me, there is no purpose beyond bringing pride to my family." He replied simply. "How I grew up, the challenges I faced, the person I've become—It's all meaningless, Lady Aceso. All that matters is fulfilling my duty... Ensuring the prosperity of my family's legacy." Micah's voice was hollow. "I will prove to everyone, including myself, that I am worthy of the trust my grandmother placed upon me."

"But what about love?" Aceso inquired, a mischievous smile curving her lips, hoping to evoke a new reaction from the boy she had watched grow up. She had seen him blossom from that timid child who loved to read to a smart-mouthed teen who acted as if he knew everything; the solemn young man who went by an unfamiliar name, burdened with the weight of responsibility. She had witnessed his devotion and treated his wounds for each sacrifice he had made for his family. But it was different now, she knew. The goddess recognized a flicker of longing in his eyes—a yearning for something beyond obligations and lineage. Aceso knew her boy had gone and fallen in love. She had seen the change in his demeanor, the way his smile would linger a little longer. He had become more lighthearted, allowed himself the freedom to be a bit happier.

What killed that smile, she lamented, staring at his gaunt face.

The goddess held little hope that the son of Hypnos would respond, never one to reveal anything that would make Micah anything less than a touchable god, but Aceso knew Hiroki—The only goddess in the room who remembered the little boy—and she could see the smoldering anguish within his golden eyes.

"I've loved," He admitted quietly, afraid of the consequences of his confession. "I love, Lady Aceso, but then I came to the realization that being with him would only inflict more pain upon him. It's a recurring pattern with me, hurting those around me. I cannot continue subjecting him to that."

"I'll always belong in Tartarus. To allow him to fall in love with another, to know he will get married, have his own children—it's the kindest thing I can do for him. I want him to find happiness, even though it breaks my own heart. After all, what's one more sacrifice?" He asked as he looked down at his hands, scrutinizing them, searching for whatever filth he believed he is made of. "What thing worthy of love can be found in me now?"

Aceso listened intently, her heart aching for the pain that consumed him. She reached out, gently taking his hands in hers. "You are more than the darkness you perceive within yourself," she whispered softly. "There is beauty in your strength, resilience, and capacity for love. You deserve happiness just as much as anyone else, regardless of your perceived flaws or mistakes." Aceso's words seemed to linger in the air.

Micah gazed at her with eyes laden with vulnerability, his emotions laid bare. It seemed he had more to express, his mouth parting as if to speak, only for their moment to be interrupted by a different voice that pierced through the atmosphere.

"My soft-hearted brother," A voice mocked them from behind, causing both Micah and Aceso to turn around. All the gods in the throne room were staring at them as Morphous placed a hand on Micah's shoulder, his voice dripping with contempt. "Always wearing your heart on your sleeve, always falling for the sentimental drivel, aren't you?"

Micah's demeanor shifted abruptly as he shrugged off Morphous' touch, his stance becoming taut as the children of Hypnos entered the throne room, followed by a flock of the ethereal Oneiroi. Phantasos was carrying an unconscious Luke Castellan, the Titan King's vessel limp in his arms.

Micah felt nothing at all when he looked at Luke. He could only recall Silena Beauregard's grief—the hatred in Percy's eyes as he blamed Micah for the deaths of those aboard the Princess Andromeda. When his brother had proposed unleashing a Drakon upon the Half-Blood army to divert their attention from Kronos' absence, Micah had successfully persuaded them to utilize the Oneiroi to induce sleep instead. He lied to his brothers for the sake of less bloodshed, claiming that this approach would enable the House of Midnight to assume greater accountability for the triumph that lay ahead this night. Even if his grandmother had seen through his words, Micah lived with the consequences.

He spent so long carefully orchestrating a plan without more death, afraid of any more hypocrisy. Adding to the death toll was never his intention, but his efforts had been in vain because of Luke

Aceso took a step forward, but Micah moved away from her as well, his gaze fixed on the ground. Whatever moment they had shared, it was gone; Micah was unreachable once again. "Leave him be, Morphous," the goddess scolded, her voice darkening with disappointment. "We all have our own ways of showing strength."

"You are a woman. What do you know about strength?" Morphous argued with a light tone, his words dripping with condescension. Aceso's eyes narrowed, her jaw clenched; Micah spoke up. "Let's not have such narrow-minded views, Brother. Would you call our grandmother weak?"

Morpheus rolled his eyes dismissively, as if the question was beneath him. Aceso sighed, realizing that it was futile to argue with Morphous, and left to join her sisters.

"Where is Phobetor?" Micah asked once the siblings were alone. The three of them spoke near the hearth, with the other deities scattered around the room engaged in their own conversations.

"He went to speak with Father," Phantasos answered. "Father remains clueless; Aunt Hemera and Aunt Nemesis are distracting him. Uncle Aither will intervene if necessary, so please do not worry. The half-bloods are all asleep, and the Kronos' monsters are being quelled by Hellhounds. All is well, Brother. Grandmother will arrive at Olympus once the sun sets."

Micah's felt a coldness develop in his gut as he processed Phantasos' words. He felt afraid, almost, to ask. It felt surreal; after so many years, could it really be happening now? Micah looked around the throne room with a sudden rush of exhilaration. The gods he had encountered over the years, the gods he had carefully planted in Olympus for the benefit of this future, were all gathered here, waiting to witness his last trial.

His heart pounded in his chest. "Typhon?"

"At your command, Brother," Phantasos said, his smile reflecting the amusement he derived from his younger sibling's countenance—a blend of uncertainty and anticipation, his golden eyes flickering between his older brothers for reassurance.

His heart pounded in his chest. It would not calm down.

Micah finally mustered the courage to ask, "So, what now, Brother?"

The chamber dissolved into stillness, hushed voices and restless movements morphing into an expectant quietness as everyone turned to the children of Hypnos for an answer. Phantasos, standing amidst the sea of gazes fixed upon him, only had eyes for his younger brother, his eyes aglow with pride; Yet, just as the silence seemed almost palpable, it was Morpheus who shattered it, seizing the opportunity to steal the spotlight.

The god of dreams had a sly grin across his lips, a sense of triumph so innate in his presence that it made the god of dreams seem like the owner of the universe.

With a theatrical flourish, Morpheus raised his hands with effortless grace, as if reaching out to touch the very fabric of the heavens themselves. His very essence seemed to ripple with delight as he summoned Luke Castellan's sword, Backbiter appearing in his hand with a burst of golden dust. And as he spoke, it was as if the room itself leaned in, eager to catch every syllable.

His voice, full of certainty that seemed to reverberate through the souls of those present, rang out like an incantation that had been etched into the stars themselves.

"Now, Brother," Morpheus declared, placing the weapon in Micah's hand; As the half-blood's fingers closed around the leather handle, the sword shed the spell it had been under, revealing its true form—Kronos' scythe, forged out of tempered steel and Celestial Bronze, hummed with ancient power, its curved blade reflecting the light of the eternal flame.

"It is your time to shine."